


In Snow were you Made, in Snow will you be Remade

by Taxonamie



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula - Bram Stoker, Hellsing
Genre: Execution, Oneshot, before the vampirism thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 00:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13915149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taxonamie/pseuds/Taxonamie
Summary: Your armies are ruined. You life is forfeit. There will be no trial.Second-person POV of Vlad Dracula, walking to his execution.





	In Snow were you Made, in Snow will you be Remade

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You stumble a little, the weight of the stocks feeling like they’re going to break your neck, the ache of raw, broken skin around your wrist and neck where the rough wood has rubbed it bloody and pierced your skin with splinters. You’ve stopped shivering, even though your breath comes out in ragged puffs of fog. You don’t feel your fingers or toes anymore, but you can feel the ice on your eyelashes and embedded in your facial hair.

They’re going to kill you; the rest of this is just to make you suffer. Their captain is a kinder man than you are.

They took your clothes long ago, your shoes and undergarments too. Naked, alone, freezing, and, once again,

Helpless.

You lost track of what was happening, focused on keeping one foot moving in front of the other, and bump into the soldier ahead of you. He snaps at you. You lift your eyes to his in silent, hateful, impotent defiance.

He grips your jaw and pulls you to his face.

“Listen you fucking _dog_. You killed my brother. I found him on a stake. My little brother. You’re going to _pay_ for that.”

You look into the eyes of the man who has no more tears to shed for his lost brother, only burning fury, and feel a kind of kindred.

“Your brother met a better fate than mine did,” your voice grinds out. Then you spit, the glob of saliva hitting the soldier square in the face. He curses, and lets go of your face to wipe his own. Someone knocks you to your knees, and your crucifix flies from your grasp.

“N-no!” you cry out with desperate terror, your teeth chattering out the single syllable. Your hand shoots out to clutch at the cross a soldier kicks away. You lose your balance and fall into the freezing muck, smearing the ooze all over your bare chest, but your fingers curl around the warmed silver of your last comfort.

The men around you jeer.

“A man is allowed his God,” the captain says, and his voice is harsh and his eyes hold no mercy or emotion for you. Not even pity. The soldiers quiet a little, but they grin as you struggle to lift yourself from the mud–blood and shit and filth all swirled together into a slurry of nightmares. “The All-merciful knows it’s all he has left.”

They have grown bored of watching you struggle. They’ve grown tired tramping slowly through the mud next to you. They just want this all to be over.

They march you up to the top of the next hill.

They open the stocks and pull you back by your hair. You try to fight but you’re exhausted and weak. They give you a swift beating and kick you in the side for your efforts. You lay in the muck, panting. Someone wedges an abandoned buckler under your neck. Your trembling hand finds your crucifix. You know God does not love you. It doesn’t matter.

You pull it to your lips.

_Our father,_

Someone draws their sword.

_Who art in heaven._

They’re deciding who it should be.

_Hallowed be thy name._

They pick someone.

_Thy kingdom come_

He steps closer.

_Thy Will be done_

He lifts the blade.

_On earth_

To the sky,

_As it is_

Measuring,

_In_

And,

_Heav–_

**Author's Note:**

> Soft opening! Here's my first posted work, I'm happy to kick it off with the end of a journy. It's got a great poetic vibe to it. 
> 
> I've posted it as Hellsing fanfic, since I'll be posing a lot more Hellsing in the (hopefully) near future.


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